Bad Days, Good Days
by BillyTheMadHatter
Summary: While fighting off the soul-eating demonic powers of paperwork, Lestrade receives an unexpected guest.


Detective Inspector Lestrade was having a bad day. A very, very bad day. In fact, he really could not emphasize enough just how bad it had been. To start with, they'd had a call about the crime lord Ron Adder falling over dead in the middle of the street outside his house. He had been shot (some time previously without really noticing) not with an ordinary bullet, but a pellet filled with what appeared to be poison. The jury (well, forensics) was still out on what kind, and they didn't have a single idea who the killer was. Not that the man hadn't had any enemies; the trouble was that he'd had too many.

And he was, despite all this, stuck with the paperwork (the bloody _paperwork_, of all things) because the Superintendent still made a point of keeping Lestrade behind his desk after... all that. The thing with the arrest and the hospital roof and the funeral. A year since, now. Amazingly, they hadn't fired or demoted him. Supposedly being the laughing stock of the police force was punishment enough.

Never mind that being stuck indoors interfered with the investigation. Because apparently, the Super had control issues and didn't care quite as much about the functionality of the department as he should. He only had Donovan and Anderson out on the scene doing the actual inspecting, as he really should be doing, too; it said so in his title and everything. And on top of that, he wasn't having a very easy time with his now ex-wife, since she was now taking him to court for the custody of their children. Just ignore the fact that their youngest daughter was seventeen. She hadn't been very happy about not getting the house and the car and just about every penny he had at the time of the divorce and had been feeling rather bitter. Now she had evidently decided to make it up to herself in other ways.

Also, he was out of nicotine patches.

He scowled at the wall, which he had been staring at for the past five minutes. Amazing how everything except what you're supposed to be doing becomes interesting in these circumstances. He could see miniscule cracks in the plaster, even though it had been recently painted, and in a rather awful colour. Some sort of vanilla. Who decided on these things, anyways?

He took a refreshing gulp from his tea mug, and turned his attention back to the glare of the computer screen. '_The victim had died from some sort of poisoning from the aforementioned pellet, and after wrapping up the scene, I delegated the task of further investigation to Sergeant Donovan...' _

Oh, screw the Super, how was this investigation supposed to proceed if the head detective wasn't allowed to do his job?

He was so busy contemplating the various ways he could make the man's life just a little bit less worth living, he didn't even look up when someone opened his door without knocking. 'What? I'm busy.'

'Hardly for much longer, then,' said a smooth baritone voice. 'Not when you've been rid of that admittedly fascinating but really quite simple case concerning the poisoned bullet.'

He snorted, still not looking up. 'Oh, yeah? And I suppose you in all your brilliance can enlighten me.'

The speaker gives the impression of an audible smirk, and continues in a clipped voice. 'The victim was shot using an umbrella, sometime early this morning. The poison used was ricin, or possibly something stronger. A rather obscure, but ultimately not a very original method. The killer will strike again tonight between nine and ten o'clock, at 221b Baker Street.'

Another voice, just about on the edge of hearing, mutters something that might have been: 'Fantastic…' and Lestrade's mind finally catches up with his ears.

He can't really be blamed, he tells himself, as the realization dawns. After all, it's such an easy routine to slip into that he just sort of forgot the person playing the opposing part is dead.

Supposedly.

He looks up from the screen, levelly, at the man who could possibly be described as a predatory scarecrow, and the one standing behind him with an innocent smile on his face but absolute joy in his eyes. After all, you can't have one without the other. He didn't realize that until the time he'd been convinced they had been forever separated. The scarecrow in question looks rather different compared to the last time they met, and has traded the iconic coat and scarf for a black hoodie and jeans. His hair is even more unruly than before, if that's even possible. He's also looking rather underfed. He still manages to look impressive all the same, but that might just be the aforementioned scarecrow-ness.

And Sherlock Holmes looks back down at him (but not quite the same way as when they first met, when he looked down on him in every sense of the word) in all his fantastic arrogance. Really, he hasn't changed a bit, it seems. But there is something pensive on the edge of his expression that in any other person Lestrade would have recognized as anxiety.

He raises an eyebrow. 'Fancy that. I suppose you can tell me the why. And probably the who,' he says as he stands up from his chair.

Sherlock's lips curl into a sneer. 'Obviously.'

Lestrade has now made it to the front of the desk, and is standing directly in front of the taller man, looking nonchalantly up at him. 'Been a while since I last saw you. What have you been up to?'

'Nothing of consequence.'

He nods, both to Sherlock and to himself. And then he hauls off and gives him the punch in the face he's always wished for: For every insult and contemptuous smile. Every instance he caused some poor victim's relative months of therapy. And for every single time he made him ask himself what the hell he had been thinking when he hoped that, great man or not, Sherlock Holmes could _ever_ be good.

Sherlock's response is oddly idiosyncratic. When he regains his balance, he winces and gingerly touches his jaw. 'Ow,' seems to be his final conclusion. Lestrade supposes he probably pulled the punch, be it on purpose or not. Having him back from the dead almost trumps the bad times. Besides, he'd never hear the end of it from everyone if he shattered those famed cheekbones.

'I suppose I should have seen that coming," the world's only consulting detective says, and Lestrade swears he's looking almost sheepish.

John nods satisfied in the background. 'I already did the honours, but now he has a matching set, so no cause to worry, I guess.' And indeed, the other side of his face is just as bruised as this one is quickly becoming. 'I suppose you can get some ice on it when we go to the morgue.'

Lestrade's mind is teeming with thoughts, the foremost being _how are you alive? I saw you dead. How dare you pretend to be dead! There had better been an explanation, and it better be _good.

_You aren't dead. For some amazing reason you are alive. Thank god._

He sighs and tries to ease the blood flow to his now aching hand. 'Right. Would it be correct if I assumed explaining now would take too much time and make no sense? Thought so. Just let me grab my coat.' As he picks up his car keys from the desk two more people make their way into his office uninvited. Sergeant Donovan's mouth is just opening to say something, and Anderson is muttering semi-quietly in that way of his. But then they see the unexpected visitors and are frozen completely still, Donovan still gaping.

John is the first to say anything, incredibly enough. ,,Sally, how wonderful to see you," and he smiles in a way that to anyone who knows John Watson means bad things unto someone else. 'We're sorry, got to rush, killers on the loose and all that, you know how it is,' and for once it's him that's tugging Sherlock away by the arm, out of the office. Sherlock smirks, and as he passes Sally he drawls 'Close your mouth, Sergeant Donovan; something might fly into it.' And her mouth snaps shut, but she is still so full of surprise that it doesn't all fit on her face, some of it moves over to take up residence on Anderson's. As Lestrade makes his way to follow them, Anderson's spluttering finally evolves into actual words as he calls after Sherlock, 'What happened to your face?!'

'Just a welcome gift, it'll pass,' the consulting detective replies airily as they gain distance on them. 'Sadly, you were born with yours, so don't expect it to get better; you'd be lying to yourself.'

The people around them (other police officers and various tacklements) are whispering and talking amongst themselves. A great deal of them have stood up and are peering confusedly after the three leaving men. Someone calls out 'Hey, aren't you...' But the rest of the sentence is lost as they exit the room, and even though Lestrade saw the Super gawking owlishly after them earlier, he really can't bring himself to care. And suddenly, it's not such a bad day.

Later, what feels like much, much later, they have gathered in 221b after catching Sebastian Moran with a plan which included Sherlock using himself as live bait and John not being particularly happy about it. Mrs. Hudson is pottering around in the kitchen making tea, and ever so often she looks around the corner to make sure Sherlock is still there and this isn't some sort of a sadistic dream. The flat is looking disconcertingly tidy, with no disturbingly organic experiments lying around. The papers that are usually strewn all over the place have been placed in boxes or bookshelves, if those aren't already at the breaking point from holding too many books. The furniture is still there, and it seems to Lestrade that Mrs. Hudson never rented out the flat since what happened. He knows John hasn't been living there, and he wonders if anyone paid to have it unoccupied for whatever reason.

He is currently sitting on the sofa, John in his own chair, and Sherlock is wandering around, fiddling with things on the shelves, putting them down and then picking up something else, only to repeat it all over again. Mrs. Hudson enters the living room, serves the tea, and sits down next to Lestrade. No one seems to know what to say, until John tilts his head, and starts.

'So. You're alive, then.' And he's looking completely calm, Lestrade notes, but deliberately so.

Sherlock stops fiddling. 'So it seems.'

'Why?'

'What do you mean?' And now he's avoiding a straight question. Lestrade never expected that to see the light of day.

'You know bloody well what I mean. Why did you fake your own death? Why did you let the press demonize you? Why didn't you show your face for a whole year and make us all think you had killed yourself?' Still that 'might-as-well-be-talking-about-the-weather' voice.

Sherlock doesn't meet his eyes. 'I had to take out the rest of Moriarty's network. I couldn't do that alive so I had to be dead. To the public, anyway.'

Mrs. Hudson isn't looking too happy. 'And what does that make us? Dear, why didn't you tell us?'

Lestrade can feel the anger worm its way back to the surface. 'You just let them all think you were a fraud! And with those flimsy pieces of so-called 'evidence.' I know you're at least slightly insane, but why would you commit a crime so you could solve it yourself? It made no sense!'

'Did it really have to, once people were doubting me? I think the term you used was 'mud sticks.' People believe what they want to believe.' Sherlock has now moved over to the window and is staring out on the street, scowling.

John's mask finally cracks, and he springs out of his chair. '_We _didn't, Sherlock. Christ, why didn't you tell us, we would have helped you!'

And Sherlock turns on him, with a rather wild look on his face. 'He was going to have you all assassinated! I thought I had him cornered, that he was going to give up, but _no_, he has to go and put a gun in his mouth!' His arms flail indignantly, and he prowls over to John to loom over him, voice disconcertingly steady. 'You were all in the crosshairs of snipers at that very moment and if I hadn't jumped you'd have… You'd have died.' He settles down, an obstinate look on his face. He clears his throat, and crosses his arms defensively, like he was uncomfortable admitting to something as human as not wanting his only friends to die. 'No one could know, or you'd be back on their list. Molly helped me fake my death. I did have Mycroft's help, too, I suppose. He owed me as much.'

The room is silent, and they stare at the self-proclaimed sociopath, who won't meet their eyes. After a while, John scratches the back of his own head awkwardly and says 'That, um. Thing you did. That was... Good.'

Sherlock tries to retrieve his usual haughty demeanour, but doesn't quite succeed. 'Glad you see it my way.'

'Just a moment,' Mrs. Hudson suddenly pipes up. 'You mean that repair man was there to kill me? And I even gave him a cup of tea! The nerve of some people!'

'Well, that's all very fine and dandy,' Lestrade says, 'But how are you going to do this? People still think you are a fraud. Hell, people still think you're dead. Just waltzing back into normal life isn't going to be that easy.'

'Oh, it can, when the British Government owes you the favour of their lives,' and Sherlock is looking his smug and slightly mischievous self again, which is a relief. 'Mycroft has already taken care of that pesky journalist, whatever her name was. Oh, don't look at me like that,' he says, when they give him a mildly disturbed look. 'He didn't have her killed, he just exposed her dubious work ethics and I pulled the so-called Richard Brook out of the system, and brought Moriarty back. It should be in tomorrow's paper. Although it took some time to get done.'

They ponder this for a while. 'Well,' Lestrade says. 'I suppose I should get back to the station to wrap things up. Bet the Superintendent is going to fly off the handle once he hears I've been working with a supposedly dead criminal. Again.'

Sherlock does an odd one-shoulder shrug. Then he clears his throat. 'It… Wasn't completely dull to have your help on this case, Detective Inspector.'

Lestrade wonders if he had been shot earlier and is in some sort of a coma, because Sherlock Holmes just doesn't do compliments, or his own twisted version of them. But then again he had come back from the dead, so almost anything could be expected. 'Yeah, well. You weren't as terribly annoying as you normally are, this time around. But I don't bet on it lasting, so I'll go away before you regain your senses and start insulting me.'

Sherlock opens his mouth to make an undoubtedly sarcastic retort, but John elbows him sharply in the ribs, and bids the Inspector good night. He leaves them glaring quite happily at each other to figure out… Well, whatever it is they've got going, because sitting around doing nothing about it for more than two years probably isn't healthy. On the way back to the station, he completely forgets to buy nicotine patches, and doesn't notice.

The day after, the front page of The Times and just about every other newspaper in London is covered with the reveal of Kitty Reilly's fake sources and the lie that was Richard Brook. The tabloids she previously thrived on are now eating her alive, and a photo taken outside her new, big house shows her trying to escape the press through the bathroom window and getting stuck. And oddly, there is nothing much about the return of Sherlock Holmes, only people questioning where he is and what he's been up to and if he really is alive.

When Lestrade arrives at work, he finds the Super putting his personal things into a cardboard box in his former office, and slinking away when people aren't paying attention. Apparently he'd been fired for accepting bribes. And on Lestrade's desk there is a note informing him that Sherlock Holmes is now on the official payroll at Scotland Yard as a consultant. After all, the British Government has a whole lot to make up for. At half past nine, Sally brings a case to his desk; a man has been found in the Thames with his face covered with yellow duct tape. He ponders for a while weather not to, but texts Sherlock in the end.

_Got a case for you. Interested?_

It only takes him a matter of seconds to reply.

_Obviously._

_-SH_

Lestrade hides a grin and texts him again.

_Better bring the hat. People might not recognize you without it._

Sherlock doesn't dignify that with an answer.


End file.
